The Doll
by Daena Greenflame
Summary: Spike is possessed by a demonic eugenisist porcelain doll. Spuffy coming up soon. Please R&R. I suck at summaries*CHAPTER SIX UP NOW*
1. Gray Matter

Disclaimer:

I don't own Buffy, I'm just playing with the characters for my own entertainment. I don't have anything worth owning, actually. Don't sue me, as I will use my telepathic powers to take over the universe soon, and you don't want me to be mad at you when that happens. 

Author's Note:

This is going to Buffy/Spike at some point and the sooner the better if you ask me, but I'll try to have it make at least minimal sense. The story begins somewhere in the sixth season. It's completely AU, and you can place it anywhen you want to, as long as it's post Buffy-has-been-pulled-from-heaven and pre Spike-is-trying-to-rape-the-Slayer-in-her-bathroom. (Yes, I know, anywhen is not a word, that's not the point. I use real words in the story.) Small spoilers are all over, nothing huge, please enjoy, and send me feedback. I write faster with feedback. If anyone has any requested events, tell me and I'll try to make them happen. Sorry for the ramble. Thus begins the tale.

Chapter One: Gray Matter

When Spike saw the doll in the window of the sleazy (and closed) thrift shop, he nicked it without a second thought. Back in his crypt he wondered why, exactly, he had taken it. He'd never really gone in for toys. Drusilla was the one that talked to inanimate objects. He examined it carefully, trying to discover exactly what about it had caught his eye. It was old, or at least the dress was. Yellowed lace flowed in traditional Victorian fashion, covering everything from the chin down, except the hands. Spike noticed with an odd twitch of disappointment that they were made of grubby vinyl. Only the head was porcelain. Judging by the make of it, it was probably over a century old. The face was completely painted on, from the black hair to the pink cheeks. The general effect would have been wholly flat and uninteresting had it not been for the vibrant blue eyes. Or were they green? Funny how they seemed so alive. The irises swirled hypnotically, drowning the tiny black pupils…spinning…no, that was impossible. Spike tried to put the doll down, tried to blink, but found himself completely immobile.

****

*My, my, William. Impossible? Such a strong word. Anything is possible on the Hellmouth. *

It was a little girl's voice, strangely mechanical, faintly amused, and it filled his skull completely, invading every cell of his brain. Knocked loose of the paralysis that had held him, he staggered backwards, crashing clumsily into his mini-fridge. He stared in disbelief at the doll, which was sitting innocently on the shelf as though nothing had happened. Shaking himself off, he cautiously approached the object. The mouth seemed to be slightly twisted now. Spike was sure the doll was mocking him. He reached for it, unsure of whether he was simply going to turn it around so it would stop staring at him or smash it into the wall until it was powder, but the instant he touched its skirt, he was frozen again. The voice spoke again, somewhat less overwhelming this time.

***Of course I'm mocking you. You are a fool, William. And don't think of me as "the doll" anymore. It's degrading. My name is Molly. Address me as such, or I will punish you. ***

Robotic laughter filled his consciousness, scattered his thoughts. Struggling, he managed to choke out a derogatory snort.

"Can't…punish me…'f I don't…touch you," he gasped, feeling a surge of triumph at the revelation.

***Oh, but I can* **Molly giggled. ***We'll have such fun! Or, at least, I will. Oh, and William? You don't have to talk. I can hear your thoughts just fine. ***

"My name is SPIKE!" he growled, his frustration filling him with strength enough to hurl himself violently at the shelf. 

Taped "Passions" reruns rained down on his head, but he could move freely again. He looked around for Molly, and was irritated, if not surprised, to find her undamaged. He didn't try to pick her up again. Instead, he righted the shelf and reorganized his videos on it, warily skirting Molly, who lay face up on the floor. The task took all night, due to the fact that he had every single episode and watched most of them to make sure they were in the right order. As the sun broke over the horizon, he finally clomped downstairs to sleep, resisting the temptation to kick the doll on his way. As he thought this, he was sure he could hear her laughter. Uneasily, he lay down to rest.

* **Sweet dreams, William, *** came the thought, as he began to drift off.

"No…" he whispered, but couldn't jerk awake. 

The vampire was plunged into unnatural sleep. Upstairs, the doll lay on the floor of the crypt. Blue eyes shifted to green, then gold. Like two miniature movie projectors, they began to run sequences of nightmare images. Spike shifted on his bed, caught in the world of Molly's eyes. Children ran barefoot through fields of flame, screeching, as angels wept guilt onto bloodless corpses. The earth was sucked dry, the sun rising and setting in the space of seconds. Oceans of holy water rained down, and the earth was replenished. A group of young women carried a huge crucifix to the top of a hill, and as Spike looked at it, he realized that he was looking at himself nailed there, burning. So hot, it was so hot, burning, burning, BURNING.

Spike sat bolt upright, his hands flying frantically over himself, feeling for the wounds. There were none. Dimly, he realized that he was still asleep, still dreaming.

"Of course you are," said Molly's voice. 

Spike spun around. Facing him was a little girl, about eight years old. Rich black curls curved around her white face. Perfectly round blotches of pink colored her cheeks. On most people it would have looked clownish. On Molly it looked sinister. Her eyes swirled, threatening to overpower him yet again, and he dropped his gaze.

"How prudent," she said. "Of course, you're already under my control, so it won't do you much good."

"I am not under your control," he growled through gritted teeth.

"Of course you are. I wouldn't be here if you weren't. Stop deluding yourself and listen to me, William. You are going to do what I tell you, when I tell you. If you do my bidding willingly, you'll save yourself a lot of pain."

"You know, I don't think you can hurt me at all. Load of empty threats if you ask me. Anyway, anything you want, I'm sure I don't. So why don't you just mosey on out of my head?"

Molly walked up and took his hand. He tried to shake loose, but she was too strong. 

"Come," she commanded, and he did.

Spike was terrified. This doll was like nothing he had ever encountered, and worse, he had no idea what she wanted. Unwillingly he followed her, his dream-legs moving of their own accord. Looking around, he realized that they were in the park. The playground, actually. It was midday, and normal kids played on the equipment, laughing. Something seemed off to Spike, apart from the fact that he wasn't dust. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then he realized. All the girls were identical to each other. All the boys were identical to each other. And they all looked just like Molly.

TBC in Chapter Two: What Dreams are Made of


	2. What Dreams are Made of

Disclaimer:

All Joss's, unfortunately. Damn unfair if you ask me. Which, of course, you didn't. Don't sue me, I will send legions of angry demons to your courtroom and all will be chaos. Just kidding, just kidding, get that straight jacket away from me! I'm playing with the characters, and I'm not selling my work. No one would buy it.

Warning:

This chapter is really quite bloody. Oh, and by the way Giles is here because I say he is. Not in this chapter, but later.

Previously:

Spike has been possessed by an evil doll (which he stole) and is currently having a doll-induced nightmare. The doll seems to get control of people by hypnotizing them. Remember that Spike is dreaming right now.

Chapter Two: What Dreams are Made of

Spike stared in horror. Little Molly-girls playing on the swings. Little Molly-boys climbing on the jungle gym. The original Molly stood at his side, her mask-like face perfectly still and composed. 

"Isn't it perfect," she said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"It's sick! What did you do with the real kids?" Spike rasped. 

They were here somewhere, he could smell them. Fresh blood tainted by the fear that rolled off them in waves. The Molly-children were a farce, a twisted parody of children. They were, like Molly herself, living dolls.

"These are the real children," said Molly serenely. "They are my children. They are perfect."

"They're nothing," Spike raged. "Do you hear me, they're not real, they're not alive!"

"Not yet," she admitted. "But they will be soon."

"Oh, no," he exclaimed, aghast. "I won't help you turn this town into your own private amusement park. Demons suit me much better."

"Why, though?" she asked. "Why do you fear my children. They are not evil."

"They're not anything! They're _dolls!_"

And that was it, Spike realized. The little doll-kids were not, in and of themselves, evil. They were nothing. No souls, no demons, and likely no minds inhabited their small frames. Molly was their essence, and she was evil. Yet she did not fill them. They were tiny blank voids that imitated children. It was the emptiness that frightened him so, the absence of self. 

"They're perfect," she repeated. "They love me."

"You made them," he replied evenly. "They only know you. They are you. They can't love. Where are the real ones?"

"The imperfect ones," she answered, stressing the word 'imperfect'. "Are this way."

She led him behind a stand of trees, to an enormous cage. Children between the ages of four and twelve huddled in the enclosure. Languages from all corners of the globe filled the air, some whispered, some screamed. All dripped with terror. Suddenly, a thought seized the chipped vampire. He tried to pull away from Molly, and to his surprise, she let him. He circled the pen, occasionally raising himself on the bars, until he saw what he was dreading. Huddled in the corner, grimy and shaking with sobs, was a small blonde girl. She looked to be only ten or eleven, but he knew her, knew the hazel eyes and the perfect mouth, which would develop into those of the woman he loved. Buffy…

Gazing at her, he didn't notice the squad of men that had now entered the cage. The scent of blood being spilled brought him out of his trance. The men, dressed in black body armor and helmets that hid their faces, were systematically murdering the children, beheading them with cold efficiency. Blood gushed wasted to the ground. Helpless, Spike watched as one of the killers grabbed Buffy by the hair, yanking her to her feet. At the same moment that the man's blade sliced into her neck, she saw him.

"Spike," she whimpered, and then the razor-edged knife severed her trachea, her spinal cord, and her body collapsed in a heap.

Spike couldn't understand, for a moment, why the young Buffy's face remained at the same level. Her body was so far below. Comprehension dawned as the masked killer flung her head to the ground and moved on to the next victim. The bloodlust that rose in him, uncontrollable, met with his disgust and fury and waged a violent battle in the pit of his stomach. He roared, his game face emerging without warning. He stumbled back to Molly, intent on doing her damage, but she had gone. All that remained was the pen, and the dead children. The demon in him was drawn to their blood, and he fed, tossing aside bloodless corpses. He reached Buffy's last. Her eyes were still open, her mouth frozen on the last syllable she had ever uttered.

__

"Spike…"

Self-loathing filled him, and he staggered backwards, stumbling out of the pen, falling to his knees on the dry ground. He began to retch, unable to stop. 

The churning in his gut woke him at last, and for a long time he lay unmoving on his bed, tears coursing down his cheeks. He was never going to steal from a thrift shop again. Well, he was never going to steal any dolls again, anyway. By his internal clock, the sun had gone down about an hour ago, but the dreams had left him exhausted. He wasn't ready to move yet.

* **Hello again, William. I told you, physical contact is not necessary for communication. ***

On the other hand, maybe he was ready. Spike leapt to his feet, glad that he hadn't bothered to undress, and made a mad dash up the stairs towards the door of his crypt.

* **STOP. ***

He had no choice in the matter. A foot from the door he stood, muscles tensed. His fingers trembled towards the promise of escape that lay outside, for somehow he knew that Molly could not reach him if he were far enough away.

* **True. Which is why you may not leave, until you agree to do my bidding. ***

Spike's mind raced wildly. Maybe he should just agree, and then break his promise, run away. Maybe go to Canada and get a decent beer.

* **You cannot break your promises to me. Once you have agreed, you will do it. ***

Again, the artificial giggling. It was beginning to annoy him.

* **Help me make my perfect people ***

"No."

* **Help me, or I will punish you. ***

"Bugger off, you painted lump of filth! I'm not going to fill the world with little pieces of you!"

****

* Foolish vampire. Go get the holy water from downstairs. *

"There isn't any."

* **There is. Go now. ***

Again, he had no choice. He went downstairs and got the holy water. Under the compulsion she laid on him, he poured it over his own torso, howling as it burnt him. Nothing existed in his world but pain, and Molly's voice, forcing him to inflict torture after torture upon himself. This was worse than anything Glory had done to him. At least then it had only been physical pain, and someone else doing it. Working against his own mind was going to make him crazier than Dru. 

~*~*~*~

Two hours later, Spike was bruised, burnt, and bloody, but he hadn't given in.

* **Fine. Be so uncooperative. Go. Leave. You will die with the rest. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I will break you to my purpose later. Now, though, you are boring and recalcitrant. I tire of you. GO! ***

He fled, stumbling out of the crypt, reflexively grabbing his duster as he ran. It hurt… but he could feel Molly's influence fading from his mind. Before he reached the edge of the cemetery, she was gone completely. He limped drunkenly into the streets, collapsing at last just outside the door of the Magic Box.

Leaning against the cold brick he wondered vaguely why the stars didn't burn him. The moon was mere reflected light, so that made sense, but the stars were suns in their own right, yet they didn't harm him. The sky swirled above him, lulling him into a state of relaxation. He couldn't feel the burns anymore. Tired. So tired. His head dropped to his chest, and he surrendered himself to the darkness that had been gathering at the corners of his mind. Spike, the Big Bad, slept like a baby until Buffy found him as she walked home from patrol. With no time to get him back to his crypt and no key to the Magic Box, she picked him up and carried him to her house. Looking at him, at his wounds and his sleeping face, for some reason untouched, she felt a twinge of pity. Poor guy. First he gets beat into a pulp, and in only a few hours, he'll be interrogated by the Slayer.

TBC in Chapter Three: Waking Dreams


	3. Waking Dreams

Disclaimer:

I am silly and obsessed with vampires, and have borrowed works of Joss Whedon to play with. I do not own Buffy, although I do own the plot of this story. Please contact me if you can figure out a way for this NOT to be the last season of Buffy.

Previously:

Molly tortured Spike and kicked him out of his crypt. Shortly before dawn, Buffy found him unconscious outside the Magic Box and brought him to her house.

Author's Note to jwoodnd:

No, Spike is not insane. Or, no more insane than usual. Yet.

Chapter Three: Waking Dreams

Spike rolled onto his stomach with a grunt. Big mistake, he realized as searing pain consumed his chest and side. Gasping, he rolled back over. To his dismay, he found himself too weak to sit up. Even lying on his back he could tell this wasn't the crypt. Nor was it the front of the Magic Box, which he knew was the only other logical place for him to be. He realized with a shiver of pleasure (No, no, not pleasure, that kind of thinking is gonna get you staked.) that he was in Buffy's basement. Now why was that? And why did he feel worse than he had since she dropped a burning church on him?

__

Oh, Right. Molly.

Damn doll.

Pulling strength from the surge of rage that flowed through him at the reminder, Spike managed to pull himself into a sitting position. Dimly, through the burning that immediately engulfed his torso, he became aware of two things. The first was that someone had gone to the trouble of putting him on a bed of blankets and cushions. The second was that all he was wearing was a pair of oversized boxers. And that was distinctly odd, because the last time he checked, he hadn't been wearing any undergarments at all. He wondered idly whom the boxers belonged to, because they were way too big to be his. Not to mention that they had little smiley faces all over them.

__

Oh no, he thought. _Not the Whelp's. I will kill her if I'm wearing Harris's underwear. Unless it was Buffy that undressed me._

Spike decided that sitting up was too tiring to do for any extended period of time. He eased himself back down onto the blankets, hoping that someone would come down soon and tell him what had happened. And where his clothes were. He didn't want to wear Harris's, but he really didn't want the Slayer to come down to do her laundry and find him naked. No, wait, what was he thinking? Of course he wanted her to find him naked. He just wanted her to enjoy it properly.

"Spike?" Buffy called, jerking him out of his daydream. "Are you awake?"

"If I hadn't been before, I would be now," Spike retorted, hiding his delight. "You gonna tell me what I'm doin' here?"

"That's gratitude," Buffy grumbled, coming down the steps to sit by him. "I save you and your smelly coat from being dusted and all you do is whine about how loud I am. At least I didn't try to sing you awake."

"My coat is not smelly," he said, pretending to take offense.

"Spike, you're a smoker. Everything you own is smelly."

Her words were melting into each other. Just the energy it took to get in a few sentences of decent banter with Buffy was draining. He was aware that she was speaking, probably asking him what had happened, but somehow he didn't have the energy to answer. From far away he heard her, but he was drifting away. Stars swirled before his eyes, danced across his wounds, spun in the air. Her voice was such a soothing sound…his eyes closed again.

"Spike? Spike! Wake up"

"Hmmm…g'way...m'tired," he slurred.

"Spike, listen to me," Buffy said.

She spoke slowly and clearly, obviously trying to make sure he understood.

"I need you to tell me what happened. If this is serious, I have to deal

with it. Alright?"

"Uh huh..."

"Was this just a bar fight, or a random demon that kicked your ass?" she said, not bothering to put it in kinder words.

Spike forced his eyes open, truly insulted that she thought any "random demon" could beat him up as bad as this.

"Don't be daft," he snorted, hauling himself to his elbows. To his chagrin, he was unable to stifle a groan of pain at the movement.

Buffy gave him a glare of pure I'm-worried-about-you-don't -make-me-admit-it-or-I'll-stake-you.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded.

Spike lowered his gaze sheepishly and muttered something unintelligible.

"What happened?" she asked. The concern in her voice was for the town, if some new evil was running loose, but it was also for Spike specifically. Realizing this at an instinctive level broke down some barrier within him, so he repeated his words.

"A bloody doll took over my head."

Her response was less than gratifying.

"A doll, Spike? Sorry, but...so not high on my list of Slaying priorities."

"Molly is not an ordinary doll," Spike bit back, irritated. He should have known better than to say anything to her. "Would an ordinary doll be able to do this to me?"

"Sometimes I wonder." Spike lunged at Buffy out of sheer temper. It was an idiotic thing to do, he realized as her fist connected with his mouth. He was flat on his back again with a split lip.

"Thanks bunches, Slayer," he growled. "Head was the only thing that didn't hurt."

"Just who lunged at who here?" Buffy snapped incredulously. Her guard was up again, any tender feelings she might have harbored towards the chipped vamp buried.

__

Tender feelings? Towards Spike? No, I did not _just think that._

"Okay, so a doll took over your head? That still doesn't tell me anything," she said, all Business-Buffy. "What kind of doll? And why do you have it? Spill."

Spike glowered at her.

"Get comfy," he sighed. "This may take awhile explain."

~*~*~*~

"So I ran. Dunno why I went to the Magic Box," he finished.

The story had taken a good half-hour to tell, even though Spike had left out the miniscule detail that Buffy had been in his nightmare. And the fact that he'd stolen the doll, although since he'd told her that he'd got it from a thrift shop in the dead of night, she would have had to be completely dense not to have sussed that out. By the time he'd gotten to the dreams, Buffy hadn't been laughing any more, and he hadn't been able to resist giving a blow-by-blow account of the tortures he'd been forced to inflict on himself. She was sympathetic, which amazed him, and he'd milked it for all it was worth. After all, it wasn't every day that the Slayer pretended she cared whether he lived or died. Maybe there was hope after all. 

__

Don't be such a bloody poof, Spike told himself. _You're dreaming if you think that girl will go near you again._

Still, the way she had reacted to his little story...maybe there was hope.

TBC in Chapter Four: Her Thoughts


	4. Her Thoughts

Disclaimer:

Of course I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer or any affiliated characters or places, they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Inc., or something like that…Blah de blah blah blah. You see, if I did own BtVS it would not be over. I would have cloned Sarah Michelle Gellar, and the show would continue indefinitely. And Buffy would have died less, I mean, didn't the X-files teach everybody that the repeated death of the/a main character gets old really, really quickly? Now any ending, except possibly turning everyone including Buffy while killing Spike, closing the Hellmouth for good, or having the good guys fail and making it an apocalyptic showdown, will be anticlimactic. Stupid writers. Stupid executive producers. Sorry about the rant, I apologize if anyone accidentally read this. It needed to be said.

Previously:

Spike is in Buffy's basement recovering from his torture-fest, and has briefed the Slayer on Molly and her disturbing activities…

Author's Note:

If you thought this story was after Hell's Bells, think again, because it isn't. Sorry the update took so long

Chapter Four: Her Thoughts

Buffy gazed at the vampire who lay before her. Spike, the great pain in her ass, the annoying, pathetic, neutered Slayer of Slayers…why would he endure such agony rather than just go along with the doll? She was evil, he was evil, sounded like a natural marriage. Like milk and chocolate chip cookies. Why would he resist it? Well, she knew the answer to that question. He loved her.

__

No. He does not love me. He is nasty and evil and vampiric and soulless. He can't love.

Even in her own mind, the thought was hollow. She no longer doubted his love. Hell, sometimes she even thought it might be reciprocated if…no, of course not. That would be vile and disgusting and degrading and…and icky. She would never allow herself to think such thoughts.

"Well, Slayer? Believe me now?" he asked bitterly, snapping her back to reality. 

The look on his face clearly expected some reproach, either in the form of her fist or just more mockery. For some reason, his expression was more of resigned pain than actual animosity, causing Buffy to regret her initial reaction. Feeling an absurd desire to atone, she spoke gently.

"I believe you. Get some rest, now. I'll call Giles and the gang to research up on this."

Spike gave a derogatory snort.

"Yeah, right," he said harshly. "Because the Scoobies are gonna be so bloody willing to help me out. Look, pet I don't need you to do this."

Buffy rose to her feet, temper flaring.

"Don't flatter yourself, Spike," she growled. "If you've found a new evil in this town, fine. I'll take care of it. It's my job. But never, _never_ think that I'm doing it for you."

She walked away without another word, leaving Spike to morosely wonder why a few words from her could hurt him more than all the injuries inflicted on him by the doll. Five minutes of brooding later, he had gone back to sleep.

~*~*~*~

"Anya? Hi. It's me," Buffy informed the mouthpiece of her telephone.

"Hello, me," replied the ex-demon cheerfully. "Don't call the Magic Box number during business hours unless you plan to by something. Do you plan to buy something?"

"No, but Anya, I need to talk to Giles."

"He's here. Come over. Unless you want to work here, in which case please stay away."

The phone went dead. Anya had hung up on her. With an exasperated sigh, Buffy went to get her coat. At least Dawn was at school. Right now, her little sister would have been just one more detail for the Slayer to deal with. And with Spike being holed up in her basement and this doll apparently on the loose, she had quite enough on her plate at the moment.

~*~*~*~

The walk to the Magic Box cleared her head, which was a blessing, since Giles was being entirely uncooperative about the doll situation.

"Please do remember this is Spike we're dealing with," he said, as though the fact might have somehow slipped her mind. "You haven't seen the doll, you haven't any idea what it's capable of, and you have no proof whatsoever that Spike isn't in league with it, assuming it even exists. This wouldn't be the first time he's lied to us, you know."

"It would be the first time in a while. What incentive could he possibly have for lying about this?" Buffy countered, realizing that defending the vamp wasn't going to strengthen her case in her Watcher's eyes. Or ex-Watcher. Whatever.

"As I said, if he were in league with the doll…" Giles reasoned cautiously.

"Uh huh. Giles, maybe you should see the beating he took before you start with the blaming trips."

Giles began to clean his glasses.

"It could be a ruse," he muttered.

Buffy smiled at him too sweetly and opened her mouth to deliver a Slayer-lecture, but the Englishman cut her off.

"However, we'll look into it," he conceded.

His former charge nodded brightly, satisfied.

"Good," she said. "When the rest of the gang gets here, tell them what's up."

She strode purposefully towards the door. Giles stared after her, somewhat blown away, as always, by Buffy's energy.

"Wait," he stammered. "How do you know if they'll be coming?"

She gaped at him in amazement, before answering incredulously, "When do they not?"

"Yes, well," he murmured. "W-where are you going?"

"Spike's crypt. I'm going to make sure the doll exists." As an afterthought, she added, "Since you're so worried about it."

"Are you sure that's wise?" he asked. "You said it controls people who have touched it."

"I said that's what Spike said," she replied. "And I won't touch it. I'll just make sure it's there."

~*~*~*~

Buffy tilted her head and examined the doll that lay on the floor of Spike's crypt. It didn't look evil or unusual to her, but she was certainly getting tingles that told of a presence in the…um…room. She got down on her hands and knees to get a better look. Admittedly, it wasn't exactly a cuddly toy, but it just didn't seem like a likely form for evil to take. Still, this confirmed that Spike hadn't been making it up. Not that she'd ever thought he had been. Which was odd. It wasn't like her to be unsuspicious of the bleached vamp. She wondered for the billionth time why she was feeling so compelled to defend him. Shoving those thoughts aside, she got to her feet. There didn't seem to be anything to learn here, except that Spike had torn his crypt apart. Or had been forced to tear his crypt apart, as was more likely the case. With a shrug, Buffy kicked the door open and headed back home. If Dawn got home and found Spike in the basement…well, nothing terrible was likely to happen, but it was a situation the elder Summers girl would definitely prefer to avoid.

~*~*~*~

Buffy successfully headed Dawn off at the pass and sent her to the Magic Box. Actually, the teen had been all too eager to go. It seemed that the Wiccas made homework more fun. Relieved, the Slayer went downstairs to check on Spike. He was still asleep. The lack of his usual defensive smirk surprised Buffy. With his face smoothed out like that, he looked almost innocent. No, scratch that, he looked completely innocent. Not to mention beautiful. His lips were relaxed in an almost-pout, his eyelashes contrasting sharply with his pale cheeks. He looked so incredibly sexy, and…eww! What was she thinking? Spike was not sexy. More importantly, she was not attracted to him. Just because she'd had sex with him didn't mean she actually cared about him. They hadn't even made love. Not really, anyway. It had been violent, spur-of-the-moment intercourse, nothing more. It had been an adrenaline rush.

__

And, oh my God, I am so not thinking about sex with Spike, Buffy scolded herself disgustedly.

Still, her face softened imperceptibly as she drank in the sight of the wounded man asleep by her washing machine. He looked so vulnerable like that. A half smile graced her lips, and she walked back upstairs. Fifteen minutes later, she was strolling towards the Magic Box for the second time that day, feeling preposterously content in the knowledge that Spike would be a happy little bloodsucker when he woke up.

~*~*~*~

Spike noticed two things that made him grin even before he opened his eyes. The first was that he hurt less. The second was the smell of his leather and cigarette smoke right beside him. When he turned to see, his grin grew wider. All his clothes were there, neatly folded and smelling delicately of Buffy. A happy little bloodsucker indeed.

TBC in Chapter Five: Not Another Prophecy

PS. Another Author's Note:

Yeah, I know, say it with me then! Not ANOTHER prophecy! _Evil smirk and wink._ I'll try to update faster this time


	5. Not Another Prophecy

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't sue me, I'm not selling anything.

Previously: Giles knows about the doll, Buffy has confirmed that it exists, and Spike has his clothes back.

Chapter Five: Not Another Prophecy

"Who's up for pizza?" Xander asked, dumping three large, flat cardboard boxes onto the table where everyone was researching with a triumphant grin.

"I can only speak for myself, but I assume everyone is," Anya chirped brightly.

"It was a rhetorical question, Ahn," Xander clarified, giving his fiancée an amused glance.

"Oh."

Buffy and Willow both reached for a pizza box.

"Off the merchandise!" cried Anya, swiftly depositing all three boxes on the floor. Fortunately, they all stayed shut.

Shrugging, Buffy dropped to her stomach and flipped one of them open.

"Eww, Xander!" she squealed. "Anchovies?"

"Mine!" Dawn blurted. 

Everyone stared at her. She rolled her eyes at them and started eating. Soon both the other boxes (Greek and pepperoni) had been opened as well and the Scoobies sat on the floor munching away. Only the sound of chewing and the occasional page turning broke the companionable silence. After about half an hour, Dawn spoke up again.

"Can I research?" she asked, looking plaintively at Buffy.

"No."

"Why?"

Tara glanced at both of them. This promised to get nasty. An idea struck her suddenly, and she intervened.

"Well, you'll have to ask Buffy, but you could probably look up some stuff on dolls. Why don' t you look through here and try to find out when it was made?"

Dawn took one look at _The Catalogue of Dolls, 1770-1997_ and decided it was time for bed.

~*~*~*~

Four hours of research later, they still hadn't found anything on the doll. Buffy was just about to suggest that she go out on patrol when Giles shouted, rather to loudly,

"Here!"

Everyone crowded around him to get a better look at the page he was on. It was entitled _Prophesies and Porcelain: The Legacy of Molly Smith._ The distinguishing feature was a large wood block print, picturing a black haired girl with a blank expression emerging from a background of flames and corpses. She held a railway spike in one hand. A small army of dolls was assembled at her feet.

"Molly Smith was originally human," Giles read out loud. "Until she was transformed into a doll by a group of nineteenth century sorcerers. The sorcerers belonged to an obscure cult, which originated in Canada, then a British colony, in 1799. The first cult leader had foreseen a future in which identical doll-like children populated the entire world. He drew a picture of the girl, and instructed his followers to find this girl and change her into a doll. This way, he said, she would be immortal, and would rule the world as the true god forever. Most historians believe him to be a false seer, and paid little attention to the predictions. After the transformation, the Porcelain Church was burnt to the ground, and everyone assumed the doll to be destroyed. No evidence against this has ever been produced, although the prophecy stated that 'the Child Goddess would arise again in the Valley of the Sun many years after her followers were dust, and come into her right once and for all.' Molly Smith was transformed into a doll on her tenth birthday."

"Well, that doesn't sound to bad," Buffy said, shrugging. "A hypno-doll that used to be a little girl."

"Not so bad?" Willow demanded furiously. "Not so bad! A little innocent ten-year-old girl got turned into an evil pseudo-goddess for someone else's selfish gain and you say it's not bad? Human rights issue here!"

"Wait a moment, wait," Giles interrupted. "Buffy, this may be worse than we thought. Once that doll has enough power, it will reanimate itself in the form of a succubus."

"A what?" Xander wanted to know.

"A succubus," Giles repeated.

"A demon whore," Anya clarified. "They're practically invulnerable. They can take non-corporeal form. And they're shape-shifters."

"Okay. But she's still a doll right now," said Buffy. "Why can't I just go smash her with a baseball bat or something?"

Giles, who had been perusing the books again, looked up.

"Because she'd gather herself back together again as soon as you were gone. She's imbued with very powerful magic. It doesn't take a difficult spell to repair inanimate objects."

"Well, we could try to drive her spirit out. Like an exorcism," Tara suggested.

"Won't work, baby," Willow said apologetically. "It's not that the doll is possessed. That's really Molly, body and all."

"Well there has to be some way I can kill this thing before it goes demon on us," Buffy sighed, exasperated. "We'll figure something out. I mean, we have time, right? It has to get power to turn into a succubus."

Giles echoed her sigh and began to polish his glasses.

"Unfortunately, we may _not_ have time. Molly gets power by feeding on pain. There is no doubt that she was draining Spike when she was torturing him. Besides, this is a prophecy. There might be a way to win and play by the rules, so to speak. Let's see…oh, yes! Here we are."

Tara and Willow, who were kissing passionately, looked up. Xander and Anya, who were doing the same, did not. Buffy smacked Xander, which resulted in him yelping, thus breaking off the kiss. Giles rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and read.

"When Night-Bound stepped 

To Light-Bound's dance

She cut his chain

When Night-Bound wept

For one last chance

She stilled his pain

Take the Night-Bound

Kill the Light-bound

Then we shall reign.

Wood and fang

Blood and bone

Choose the light and seal our tomb

Or be Evil's slave and the master of doom."

"There's more here. It's all prose after that…'the child of light and the slave of darkness will be bound beyond all untying, and chaos will reign.' Of course, by chaos they simply mean that their eugenics movement will fail, I suppose. Oh, I've seen this somewhere before. I'll have to check, but there's a spell somewhere that details the binding."

"Cross-referencing time!" Willow exclaimed, getting up and immediately finding the book Giles had been thinking of.

Giles blinked at her, opened his mouth to ask how she had known what he was talking about, and changed his mind, instead addressing Buffy. 

"Well, I think it's safe to assume that you're the Light-Bound. Now all we have to do is find Night-Bound."

Buffy sighed dramatically. "I think the cryptic is pretty clear this time. Night-Bound means Spike."

"It does seem likely, doesn't it?" Giles said, sounding disappointed. "Molly has been trying to 'take him', after all. Still, I'd like to make sure. I'm certainly not binding you to Spike without doing a bit more research."

TBC in Chapter Six: The Porcelain Church

Author's Note: That so-called poem is not even supposed to be a poem. It's supposed to be a cryptic way of saying "Buffy and Spike will have to unite so as to defeat Molly." I wrote it for purely practical purposes, and if there's going to be any more poetry in this story it will be of a lot better quality, I hope.


	6. The Porcelain Church

Disclaimer:

All I own is the plot. And Molly. If anyone wants to buy this, let me know, but until I meet a seriously doped up editor and or publisher I am strictly unsuable. And, as always, aware that many of the words I use are not officially words.

Previously:

The gang has found out all about Molly, and found a prophecy (groan) that indicates a way for Buffy to beat her. 

Chapter Six: The Porcelain Church

The chapel stood out starkly against the desert skyline, casting long evening shadows on the dunes. A light breeze was blowing between the tombstones, scattering dust and grit across the graves. This was no demon-church, no place of evil. The town that had once surrounded it had long since sunk into the earth, but this small fragment of a forgotten community remained almost miraculously untouched. It was a small, quiet sanctuary, guarded for decades against intrusion from the nearby Hellmouth by seemingly endless stretches of sand and scraggly brush. In reality, it was only about a quarter of a mile off the highway, but it was half buried in the wasteland, invisible to anyone that didn't have precise coordinates. And who in their right mind would waste that much energy to find a place as purely insignificant as this?

Surely no one. 

The men that came by helicopter tonight were most definitely not in their right minds. At best, they moved with a fanatical energy, inefficient and aggressive, their eyes lit up in the dim twilight. At worst, they were nearly catatonic, stumbling slowly out of the choppers to huddle in a tight group, muttering. Some simply walked about aimlessly, jabbering to the sky. Jabbering to their dolls. That was the distinguishing feature that identified them as part of a collective. The dolls were beautiful, and obviously well cared for. Soon they were everywhere in the tiny chapel, lined up on the pews, on the altar, on the organ. Smaller versions of Molly, and definitely not magical, it would have been unclear to anyone just what purpose they served.

Unclear that is, unless that anyone had stuck around until midnight. Unclear unless they saw the final chopper arrive, a blacker black against the darkness of the night, glittering in the glaring corona of electric lights, buzzing like some crazed giant insect. Unclear unless they saw the figure who emerged from the machine, resplendent in her lace gown and white face paint, glowing with menacing beauty and purpose as she strode up the steps of the church, waltzed straight to the great wooden cross that adorned the altar, and hurled it with vicious strength to the ground. As she reverently placed a painting of the human Molly, life-size, where the cross had stood only moments ago, the purpose of those little dolls became clear. They were a symbol. A symbol of faith.

The Porcelain Church had come to town.

~*~*~*~

It was late when Buffy got home, or early, rather. Three thirty-four AM to be precise. And, despite her growing need for sleep, some annoying little voice was forcing her into the basement to talk to Spike. She heated up a mug of blood in the microwave, wondering why she'd bothered to buy any. The vampire would undoubtedly be off her hands as soon as he could manage, and with his demonic constitution, that wouldn't take more than a few days.

__

Not soon enough, a part of her said, while another part screamed, _too soon!_

Shoving all such thoughts to the furthest corner of her mind, she mechanically continued on her way to Spike. It occurred to her somewhere between the fridge and the top of the stairs that she didn't have a clue what she wanted to say to him, because she sure as Hell wasn't going to tell him about the binding spell yet. She wasn't nearly ready for that conversation. Her feet kept moving, almost without her consent, towards her enemy? Friend? 

__

Really, really annoying co-worker, she decided. It seemed like the safest compromise.

The really annoying co-worker caught her by surprise, stepping in front of her with his usual predatory grace. Tired as she was, and lost in thought, she didn't notice him until she bumped into him. Lucky for both of them, the blood didn't spill. Spike gave the Slayer an odd glance, noting that her frown seemed to be of a more puzzled, tired sort than an angry one, but didn't comment. Instead he said lightly,

"Great room service here. Clean clothes and a snack? Somebody must love me."

His tone was teasing, but Buffy stiffened instantly, and he wished he could take back that last sentence. He took the mug that was thrust at him and retreated back to his makeshift bed, trying not to care what she felt and failing miserably. To his surprise, she followed without remark. Although her body was coiled tight as a spring, she made no attack, verbal or physical. Mutely she stood before him, and he noticed with something like wonder that she still wasn't angry. Whatever she had to say must be important, he decided, so he waited patiently for her to speak.

Minutes passed, and Spike became intensely aware of the mounting tension in the room. His nerves were singing inexplicably. Finally, the silence became unbearable, and he spoke again, softly.

"What's up? It's almost four in the morning. Is there trouble?"

He sincerely hoped that there was no trouble, because he was pretty sure anything more strenuous than walking within the next twenty-four hours would reopen all the wounds that had thankfully sealed themselves during his stay on Revello.

"No trouble yet," Buffy assured him. "But there might be soon. We found out about Molly. Apparently there's some spell we have to do…I'll fill you in on it when we know more. What do you know about succubuses?"

"Succubae," Spike corrected automatically. His head jerked up as he absorbed her question. "Why?"

"Because Molly is going to turn into one. All I know is that they're shape-shifting demon whores…" she trailed off as she figured out the reason for his stricken look.

"I am not asking you about kinky demon sex!" Buffy yelled, unable to keep from laughing. "I just need any information you can give me about what I'm going to have to fight if the spell doesn't work. And thank you so much for those entirely unneeded mental images."

Spike was grinning now, although he didn't know why. Buffy's laugh was just that infectious. Bright and golden like her hair. Like her skin. And now he was glad of the darkness, because he was getting a hard-on. Succubae and Buffy…and that thought led to some very interesting mental images. His grin grew wider.

__

Shut up, he told his brain. _This is not the time. This is millennia away from the time._

Then they were both laughing, just happy laughter for no reason at all. Spike recovered first.

"Right," he said, snorting back a chuckle. "Succubae. What do you need to know?"

~*~*~*~

The Honorable High Priestess of the Porcelain Church sat at desk, poring over several maps and folders. Her blue-black hair shone softly in the lamplight, her full mouth relaxed instead of twisted into the proud, cold shape it usually took. She was satisfied. The Child-Goddess had been located. The Night-Bound would be collected in due course, his life force given up in utter sacrifice to the Child-Goddess. Their time was coming at long last. Licking her lips, the High Priestess stood. She would allow no rash moves at such a critical time. There was a mission to accomplish. She would be patient. Until the one called Spike was dust. Then…but no. Best not to think too far into the future. Only be patient. The waiting was all…

TBC in Chapter Seven: Too Early Seen Unknown and Known Too Late

Author's Note:

This chapter was sort of weird. I'm not sure if it worked out. Please review, it really does make me write faster.


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